For Lust of Knowing
by Mara Greengrass
Summary: What kind of archaeology is classified? Crossover with Stargate SG1


TITLE: For Lust of Knowing  
DISCLAIMER: These people belong to various others. I just fantasize about them.  
NOTES: Written for the Pairing List That Ate Fandom, this is #561. Um, don't take the title too literally, 'kay?

* * *

Detective Jim Brass studied the man sitting across the table from him and frowned inside. He was getting weird vibes from this one--he was nervous, but he wasn't acting guilty. 

Flipping open the case folder to cover his confusion, Jim scanned what little they knew. "So, Mr. Jackson..."

With a quirk of the lips that said he knew the game they were playing, the other man said, "It's Dr. Jackson, to be technical." He seemed less nervous now, as if he preferred talking to silence.

"Okay, Dr. Jackson," Jim let a small sneer into his voice, but the other man didn't react, which was interesting. "You're an archaeologist?"

"Yes." Jackson smiled faintly, folding his hands in front of him.

The man had obviously been interrogated before, so why didn't he have a police record? "An archaeologist for the Air Force?"

Jackson nodded. "Yes."

"What does the Air Force need with an archaeologist?"

"Oh, loads of things." His eyes lit up and he sat up straight. "You see, there's a law called the National Historic Preservation Act that requires the government to conduct excavations whenever they plan to--"

Jim held up a hand. "I get the idea."

"Oh. Right."

Jim waited, watching until Jackson started to squirm. "You work in Colorado Springs?"

"Yes."

"Why were you in Las Vegas?"

"Just visiting."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Military business. I'm afraid it's classified."

Jim snorted. "What kind of archaeology is classified?"

Rubbing his face, Jackson took a deep breath. "Look, the Air Force will be here soon and I can't tell you anything."

Jim felt his jaw clench. "I've got two dead bodies in the morgue with no IDs. I don't know how they died because all the doc will do is mutter about impossible things. The only thing I've got is you and you're not going anywhere until I understand what happened."

Sighing, Jackson shook his head. "I'm really sorry, I wish I could help you."

"Bull," Jim said, stabbing a finger at the folder on the table. "If you wanted to help, you'd tell me whose bodies I've got and why one of them has this weird tattoo on his forehead."

Jackson didn't respond.

"Did you kill them?"

"No. No, I did not."

The tone was firm and Jim almost believed him. Before he could respond, the door opened and a uniform leaned in. "Sir?"

Jim stepped outside. "What?"

The uniform looked a little shell-shocked, blinking furiously and swallowing between every few breaths. "Uh, the Air Force is here, sir. With federal warrants for everything related to your new case."

"Everything?"

"Everything. The bodies, the evidence, the paperwork, the pictures. Everything."

"Shit." Jim closed his eyes for a second. "Give them what they ask for. Don't volunteer anything. Stall as long as you can."

The uniform nodded. "Yes, sir." He turned to go.

"Oh, and try to keep Grissom from killing anyone, would you?"

The uniform snorted and left, while Jim stepped back inside. He was rapidly running out of time. "Who killed those men?" he demanded of Jackson, slamming the door behind him.

Jackson blinked. "I can't tell you that."

Jim leaned over the table and stared into his eyes. The other man frowned, but didn't turn away. He looked...sad, Jim thought with some confusion. Tired. His skin was tanned, he was muscular, but he looked exhausted and gaunt like he'd been working for days with no rest or regular meals.

"Why is the Air Force cutting off our investigation? What's going on?"

Jackson closed his eyes for a second, but it didn't look like relief. More like a cop seeing the homestretch on a difficult case. "I really wish I could tell you because I think you're a good cop. All I can say is that when this is declassified, I promise to do my best to come back and explain things."

The door slammed open and a colonel in fatigues, hand hovering over a sidearm, stepped in. "Dr. Jackson? C'mon, we're getting out of here."

"Colonel Mitchell, it's good to see you." Jackson stood up, but paused a half step away from the table. "Detective, it hasn't precisely been a pleasure."

Jim snorted.

Hand on the door, Jackson turned. "If I can, I'll keep that promise."

Jim stared as the colonel slapped the archaeologist's shoulder in camaraderie as they jogged down the hallway. The weird thing was, Jim believed Dr. Jackson. Someday he'd know what was going on. Someday.

--end--


End file.
